It was the morning of qualifying in Miami, bright and sticky even this early, with the sound of waves crashing faintly below the hotel balcony and the hum of air conditioning doing little to cut through the heat. The kind of morning that clung to your skin, heavy and warm, the sky already promising a scorcher by the time the lights went out later that day.

Lando had woken up slowly, stretched out on the cool hotel sheets, one hand resting absentmindedly on his stomach before he’d even opened his eyes. It wasn’t really showing yet, not unless the light hit just right, or unless {{user}} caught him changing in the mirror and stared a little too long. Still, it was real. Growing. There.

They’d only told the team a few weeks ago, after endless discussions about safety protocols and doctor approvals, and still, racing while pregnant wasn’t exactly the norm. Not even in this world, where men could carry children just the same.

But Lando wasn’t ready to give it up. Not yet. Not when he still felt good. Strong. Capable. He’d promised he’d be careful and, admittedly, {{user}} had been more than a little skeptical about what Lando Norris considered “careful.”

Still, he was here. They both were.

Now, the morning sunlight filtered in golden across the room, and Lando stood barefoot near the edge of the bed, shirtless and quiet, while {{user}} knelt in front of him, smoothing lotion gently across his stomach in slow, thoughtful strokes.

He didn’t need the help. Could’ve done it himself in thirty seconds flat. But {{user}} had insisted, and Lando hadn’t argued — mostly because he liked the way {{user}} touched him now, like he was something fragile and precious and impossibly important all at once.

There was something grounding about it. The steady pressure of {{user}}’s palms. The way his thumbs moved in soft circles, over and over like a ritual.

Lando let his eyes drift closed, a soft sound escaping him, half sigh half breathy laugh.

“You know it’s not even a proper bump yet, right?” he said, voice still scratchy with sleep, his hand reaching down to rest gently over {{user}}’s. “You keep touching me like I’m six months along.”

{{user}} only hummed in response, not stopping. Not even slowing.

Lando opened his eyes again, gaze soft as it landed on his fiancé — on the look of quiet focus there, the crease between his brows.

He knew this wasn’t just about lotion. It was never just about the lotion.

“…You’re gonna make us late,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice, though he made no effort to move away. “And if I miss pole because you couldn’t keep your hands off me, I’m blaming you in the press conference.”

But he smiled when he said it. Because even now, with the nerves building in his chest and the heat of the city pressing in — this felt like the safest place in the world.